


if wishes were fishes

by activatingAggro (pigeonfancier)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Body Horror, Helmstrolls, Platonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 23:02:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16753126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pigeonfancier/pseuds/activatingAggro
Summary: “Because he’s got control, cuz. Only good thing about him. Cross the lines right, carry the genes, and Shep thinks she could get a motherfucker hale enough to split molecules, make the most wicked of miracles. Shit’s bull, but.. the fuck ever, right?”“Ah, I don’t know anything about genetics, I’m afraid. I suppose that could be plausible.” He doesn’t sound convinced, but you can’t bring yourself to care much. Right now, you ain’t sure if you’re convinced right, either. “Heavens. That’s.. hm. I never thought of them just –”“Cultivating trolls,” he says, delicate, “like plants.”(Like dogs, Hadean had said once, but you ain’t thinking about Hadean in the here and now, and Pheres isn’t his boy, no matter how treacherous his tastes lie.)Then he adds: “Does that mean she has your line, too?”Riccin struggles to deal with the implications of being in the Program, and makes a choice.





	if wishes were fishes

**Author's Note:**

> The Imperial Education program, mentioned loosely here, is a program made for future helmsmen in the roleplay's Alternia! Sign over your rights for an assurance you won't be culled, and they'll start prepping you for helming young, so you're ready to slot in at 11. They'll also take your genetics, mark any descendants in the caverns, and scoop them up young to repeat the process.
> 
>  
> 
> Dehumanisation is hard! It's harder when you're raised with it, and Riccin's overall arc is realising that, despite the normalisation, they want zero parts of any of it.

> **TEMASEK, HANHAI REGION, ALTERNIA | _2,641 words_**

“Don’t you ever wish your telekinesis was weaker?” Pheres asks you, tilting his head back, and you have to pinch his chin to keep him in place.

Because brother’s like the bird that raised him. He flits more than Nzinga, if you don’t keep an eye on him: he’s already smudged his mascara three times over, and the white cakepaint on his face’s streaked across the back of his hand, where the knuckles skated right across. You hadn’t realised how much he gestures, how much he fucking touches everything, until you’d looked away and turned back to find white smudges all over your counter.

Least your bathroom’s small enough to make it almost work. First thing you’d done, when you’d moved into the indigo flats, was knock down all the walls to make one massive room to store your collection. Who needs walls, when you’ve got shelves and cupboards to designate locales instead? But they’d refused to let you tear down the bathroom’s drywall, so the only thing you’d been able to do was narrow it.

You hadn’t expected to end up quite this fucking large, though, when you’d done it. The tub’s only big enough for you to fit now if you fold your knees up, and stretching out your legs on the commode leaves your feet braced flat against the wall of the sink. It’s sized for a motherfucker like your little rust, not for you, but that’s fine.

There’s only so many places he can smudge. And it ain’t like the walls aren’t already stained white. “Used to be weaker,” you say, mild as you dip the brush back into the pot. Pheres’s got hollow cheeks. They’ve rounded out since you first met him, but he’s always going to be gaunt, you think.

Chiloa’d explained, once, when you were real young, it was a sign of mistreatment. The caverns didn’t always do right by every troll. They let custodians get out that weren’t the right fit for their charge: ones too small, too young, too delicate to take proper care for the troll they were selecting. Ones that might die, as soon as they got out, and leave their ward to be eaten by the others, or scrounge to survive.

And pupas just weren’t made for scrounging. They managed! Orphans are a dime a dozen in the program, where surviving the cull is as easy as signing over your life. But they always look queer, after. They developed late. They stayed small. Their arms stayed thin, and their bones long, and they were delicate, in a way that just always struck you as sad, the closest to wanting to coddle a motherfucker as you’ve ever come. There’s a tragedy to be found in looking at a soul, and seeing the shadow of what they should’ve been draggin’ behind them, heavy enough that everyone knows it’s there.

Pheres’s got hollowed cheeks, but you suppose he’s always gonna, and there’s no harm in pulling ‘em in more with a little colour. “But Shep wanted to see how far it could go, brother, so she spun the wheel and drew me taut. The fuck is the use for small scale? She’s got Conetl’s line for that. Close your eyes, now.”

He shuts them obligingly. “Why does she have Conetl’s line?” he asks. The two of you keep drifting back to Ico since that not-a-pile you had. The topic’s like a sore that you can’t stop picking, but..

It’s a kind of healing, you think.

“'cause that’s what we do, brother. You get a bucket, and you -” His eyelashes fan as he peers through them, just in time to catch the gesture you make. He titters. He always fucking titters, like he’s some seven sweep from the films.

“Don’t be disgusting.” But he’s smirking, lopsided like he’s trying to bite it back and can’t quite manage. “I know you spit into a vial,” he says, and ever has there been a motherfucker who sounded so prim? "There’s no need for - direct pailing. That’s how the psionics corps does it. But - why Conetl’s?”

“Stop moving,” you scold. With the gray blooming across his cheeks, it makes him look sharp in the way he used to. When you dab the brush down his nose, dragging shadow along the edges, it extends it. Makeup’s like singing. There’s always something satisfying about taking notes off a page and turning them into proper sound. “Because he’s got control, cuz. Only good thing about him. Cross the lines right, carry the genes, and Shep thinks she could get a motherfucker hale enough to split molecules, make the most wicked of miracles. Shit’s bull, but.. the fuck ever, right?”

“Ah, I don’t know anything about genetics, I’m afraid. I suppose that could be plausible.” He doesn’t sound convinced, but you can’t bring yourself to care much. Right now, you ain’t sure if you’re convinced right, either. “Heavens. That’s.. hm. I never thought of them just –”

“Cultivating trolls,” he says, delicate, “like plants.”

(Like  _dogs,_ Hadean had said once, but you ain’t thinking about Hadean in the here and now, and Pheres isn’t his boy, no matter how treacherous his tastes lie.)

Then he adds: “Does that mean she has your line, too?”

The brush stills on his face. It’s enough for Pheres to notice, even that little gesture, and after a moment, he reaches up, careful, brushes his fingers across the back of your wrist. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. It’s not quite acquiescence, the sort of thing meant to pacify. His fronds don’t linger. His wrist stays down. It’s just.. comfort, that’s all, for all that it’s gilded in bemusement. “Ah! You don’t need to answer that. I was just curious.”

He’s always curious, you want to say, if your tongue hadn’t gone leaden.

But you don’t need to say nothing. You never do, if you wait long enough; Pheres reads the mood of a room like words on a page, and he clears his voice, lets his breath catch in a low hum. “You know! I used to want to have telekinesis, when I was younger,” he tells you, all faux-bright, and he tilts his face up as you dust the highlighter along his bridge. “I just thought.. well. It’s the superior skillset, isn’t it? All I can do is hide. But a skilled enough telekinetic.. they can do anything.”

“They can copy constructs. They can stop bullets. They can move faster than any speedster, and they can start fires, and they can freeze ice. Ah. Water? They can freeze water, I mean, whereas the rest of us are just.. specialised. All we can ever do is one thing, and hope we can do it well, but you people.. you’re generalists.”

“And you never have to get out of bed to get coffee,” he says wistfully. “You can just think about it, and it’ll be made. Ah, I tried to train Kabiir to do that, but she just knocked over the pot, instead. And then tried to eat the coffee beans. I adore her, but sometimes I think.. well. She’s not very smart, is she? Even for a barkbeast? But, ah, that’s unkind. She does try, and I should respect that..”

“She’ll have my line,” you say. There’s no emotion to it. It’s just.. a thing, a thing you’ve been thinking about for the past few nights, ever since the notice had appeared in your box. You’ve always known you’ll be contributing slurry. The thought’s never bothered you, even the first time you’d heard it. It was what everyone did. “I’m supposed to go contributin’ pails in the next few perigees.”

It’s his turn to pause. “Oh.” His voice’s so delicate. And - once, this was the thing you’d thought you’d loved him for, or could have. Pheres is infuriating in the way he minces. When he gets to worrying, he holds back his words like eggs in his mouth, where the slightest slip of a tongue’ll shatter them outright. But there’s a kindness to it that you can appreciate, one that few trolls manage, and a benefit to that. Especially right now.

“Isn’t that early?” he asks. The thought of contributing slurry’s never bothered you, but this.. it’s strange, in a way you can’t place. If you don’t know how to feel about it, though, Pheres ain’t giving you any guidance.

“By six perigees, or maybe ten.” A beat. “They picked folks for me, too. Ain’t that something? Here, lift your chin -”

He obliges. His voice’s still got that spun glass quality, delicate and free of any kind of filler. “Is that standard, then? Ah, picking your partners. It’s very.. efficient, I suppose. I can see the appeal.”

“Nah. You’re supposed to pick 'em yourself. Doesn’t matter much, who’s pailin’ who. They can pull your bits out of the fucking pail, spin it into something worth using, on the usual. But -” Pheres’s watching you, eyes locked on yours like he’s trying to drag out a secret. Or carve one out of you. It’s the sort of look you’ve seen him aim at plenty of folks.

Ain’t ever been a time he’s pointed it at  _you._  And there ain’t even a time you’ve stuttered in your goddamn life, either, but now, your words catch. “- uh -”

“Sorry,” he chirps, looking down. “I didn’t mean to get - ah - if you’d rather not talk about it, it’s fine..”

“Just don’t stare, little rust. Those eyes of yours make a motherfucker feel like they’re about to get fucking ATE.” The words come out waspish, but he doesn’t wilt. (A half-sweep ago, you know, he would’ve.) And he just stands there while you take the moment to rediscover your words. None of this is bad. It’s just strange, is all. “Why would I mind talking about it?” you say, sharp. “Ain’t no need for all that. We’re running low on psions. We’re runnin’ low on genes, 'tween this and the fucking Glub, and our cavern prices are gettin’ too high to waste on slurry products.”

“We need a few cohorts of set runs. Proper Sincans, 'n’ Kayatas, 'n’.. probably Conetl’s. He donated sweeps back, wouldn’t be fucking surprised.”

“They’re not going to..” Pheres clears his throat. If his ears could pin back, they might, but instead, he just steps back. When you blink at him, he doesn’t smile. It’s the first time he might’ve missed the opportunity, really, in the whole time you’ve known him. “Ah.”

“What?”

He runs his tongue over his lips, a swipe of black over the white. When he opens his mouth, there’s chalk blooming on his teeth, because of course it fucking is. He’ll ruin his entire face before you’re done, if you don’t keep moving. “They’re not going to pair you with Kindra, are they?”

Except how the fuck are you supposed to keep moving after that?

“Why would they pair me with Kindra?” you demand, straightening up. You’ve been hunkered over Pheres, but you refuse, not when he’s spitting out bile like that.

He frowns at him, folding his arms and slipping his hands around his waist. He’s whippet thin, and gaunter still under the influence of the paint. The gesture just emphasizes that. “Don’t be like that. It’s just a question, Riccin.”

“The fuck kind of a question is that? We ain’t like that. They wouldn’t have us be like that,” you snap, and when he pulls back to flatten against the wall, you step forward. Pheres wants to slink away from the discussion. He always does, soon as he puts his foot into it, but -

\- it feels like he just slapped you. The idea of you and Kindra together.. it’s as bad as if he’d asked you if you were going to fuck your lusus. He knows that! He must know that. Everyone ought to know it, everyone who’s ever seen the two of you together, or even heard your fucking names.

You and Kin are written in the stars in a hundred different ways, but pails have never been one of them.

When he looks up into your face, mouth mulish, he tries to step back another step. But then his horns hit the wall behind him. Part of you expects him to wilt, when he realises. Duck his horns and start murmuring apologies, one after another, the way he always does.

He hisses at you instead, and that’s different enough that it cuts through your outrage like a knife. There’s blotches of brick blooming along the curl of his ears, the only place that ain’t swathed in white, but you don’t need a blush to see the way his face scrunches. “Oh!” he cries.

“Stop that! You’re not - you’re not going to intimidate me,” he bites off, “just because I said something you don’t like. And we’re not pale. I’m not going to - to fucking pacify you.” He rolls back his shoulders and lifts his chin, the motion jerky. Then he stepa forward, no more fluid for how quick the motion goes. “I shouldn’t have to. We’re friends, aren’t we? We’d better be, if I’m letting you deck me in paint.”

“I -” He scowls up at you. You take a step back, and its your turn for heat to flare under your skin. “Yeah,” you say, your voice a little sheepish, and it’s hard to feel strange when shame’s flooding you like icewater in your veins. You’d told him that it was wrong for Sipara to go scaring him, but when push comes to shove..

Maybe this is what comes of being raised with clowns, the two of you. Pheres acts like he ought to, from his blood to his size. But you and Sipara have always shaken your horns and stepped up at the first provocation. You’ve always acted like your blood was cooler than it was, and..

(Gunners don’t get paired up, like fucking  _plants._ )

.. well. If you don’t want him showing throat to every highblood that looks his way, or rolling over for Nzinga, maybe you oughtn’t go trying to play their fucking parts. “We are. Uh. We are  _friends,”_  you say, with one long exhale. “Sorry, brother. Shit was uncalled for. It’s just -”

“You don’t like Kindra like that. I understand.” He brushes his hair back, where a braid has fallen forward, then scrubs at his cheek. His palm comes back white, but you don’t have the spirit in you right now to go smacking hands. Let him ruin it, if he wants. It’s his fucking face. “That’s why I was asking,” he says, brisk, like he didn’t notice none at all. “I was concerned, Riccin, that’s all, and you needn’t go - go- being cruel on account of it.”

“You can just say you’re uncomfortable,” he says. “Isn’t that what you told me?”

It’s strange, hearing your own words puppeted back at you. But you expect that’s the point of it. “'course I did,” you admit, letting your shoulders fall back down into a slouch. He’s got the right of it. ".. sorry about that. They ain’t pairin’ me with Kin. And I’m not uncomfortable -“

"Yes, well, don’t apologise, just.. don’t do it again. And of course you’re uncomfortable. Don’t lie to me, either, that’s dreadful. But at least they’re not encouraging coloursmearing, I suppose, and that’s all we need to say on that topic for now.” A beat. He peers into the mirror, then puffs out his cheek. It’s a blatant attempt to change the subject.

It’s one you’ll accept, given the topic. “Unlike me,” he says, mournful. “You might as well come over here and finish up. Is the black supposed to be leaching into the gray like that? Because, ah.. I think I smeared it again…”


End file.
